Winter’s icy fingers turn the morning air.
Her dry worldly bones are cracking. She will soon sit,
fat arms crossing her breasts, refusing to rise,
till Spring stirs. The worldly swallows abandon their
mud huts. The crossing kites will turn to go. And we will knit
and reminisce in musty woolies about warmer days,
trusting that whatever it is that turns the worldly skies
will tip us back toward the crossing sun’s bright rays.

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NaPoWriMo — Day Fourteen: Try an eight-line poem called a san san, which means “three three” in Chinese. The san san has some things in common with the tritina, including repetition and rhyme. In particular, the san san repeats, three times, each of three terms or images. The eight lines rhyme in the pattern a-b-c-a-b-d-c-d.

I spend my life trying not to say the same thing the same way.
That made this poem difficult — being forced to repeat terms or images.

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